


Let Only The Young Come

by oheventually



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Merpeople, M/M, Merman thor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-18 19:04:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13687872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oheventually/pseuds/oheventually
Summary: Frigga lapses into silence, stroking Loki’s hair. “There is the sea in you,” she says softly. For no reason Loki can discern, she looks close to tears. “It is calling.”Loki does not know what to say to that, only that he must ease the sorrowful look on his mother’s face. “I’m here, mama.”“Yes,” Frigga smiles sweetly at him, tinged with something he will only later come to recognize as heartbreak. “You’re here. My Loki.”Loki falls asleep that night rocked in his mother’s arms and does not hear her whisper into his hair, “For now.”





	Let Only The Young Come

**Author's Note:**

> Written for @thorkievents Valentine's Day Exchange for @captainsheepie who asked for a mermaid au. This also has a slight twist of secret admirer to it, if you squint. 
> 
> I had a lot of fun writing this; it's definitely outside of my usual purview and I enjoyed the challenge! Hope you enjoy! <3

_ Let only the young come,  _

_ Says the sea.  _

 

_ Let them kiss my face  _

_ And hear me.  _

_ I am the last word  _

_ And I tell  _

_ Where storms and stars come from.  _

 

  * Young Sea, by Carl Sandburg



 

  
  


Loki lives in a small fishing village by the coast with his mother, Frigga. His eyes are green like the sun-dappled sea or the moss that grows on rocks by the shore. He's a quiet child, mischievous and clever and by the age of eight has read any book he can get his hands on (There are but a few. The village is poor but old captain Eirik tells tales of his time at sea and Loki always listens, rapt, long past the time all the other village children grow out of such stories. His favourites are the ones about sirens and merfolk who dwell beneath the waves).   
  


As a child, Loki spends much of his time at the docks, pestering the fishermen with questions until they sigh their salty sea-sighs and let him help. He carries tackle and fishing line and wire, and tangles himself more than once in the thick ropes that moor the boats to the shore. Sometimes he dreams of loosing the ropes and watching the ships sail away, free. The men laugh when he tells them this, except for Sven who spits sour tobacco at his feet and huffs about  _ nøkken.  _ The other men laugh not unkindly and assure Loki that he is safe - no one has seen a water spirit in years. As he grows, Loki spends more of his time on boats until the rocking of the waves beneath the deck grows more familiar to him than the cold settled ground. "You were born with sea legs," Frigga tells him. "The waves move in you." 

 

Her eyes are far away but Loki is dancing to the rise and fall of the deck and does not see. 

 

On a day like any other, Loki is playing on the deck of one of the fishing boats, heedless of the noises of men and tackle around him as he focuses on nudging two puddles of water closer together on a plank of wood. He gets no warning but the sharp pitch of the deck beneath him as a great wave rocks up and crashes over the ship, sweeping him over the low railing and into the dark waters below. He has no time to draw breath for a terrified scream before he is plunged into the water and swallowed without a sound. 

 

The water is cold and it shakes the little remaining air from his lungs. Loki tries to kick his legs but the sodden weight of his clothes holds him down and he slips further into the depths. The water stings his eyes as he opens them to watch tendrils of his dark hair float around his face like waving seaweed. Despite the terror - or perhaps because of it - this place is beautiful. 

 

But beauty is not oxygen and Loki’s lungs are screaming for air. Try as he might, he can't get closer to the surface. Eventually his struggles cease and his body goes limp; he drifts down into the depths as if seized by a great calm. 

 

The world is a haze of aquamarine light and cerulean shadow. Loki’s chest heaves against the weight of the water even as the last dregs of oxygen stutter out of his lungs. Darkness edges his vision and, abruptly, he is seized with sorrow as he thinks of Frigga’s face. _Mama_ _ … _

 

Just as Loki’s eyes slip closed for the last time, something rams into him; though the impact is deadened by water, it shudders through Loki’s whole body and his eyes fly open. The sight before him is - incredible. At first, nothing but a swirl of colour: rust red, pale orange and brown. But as Loki tries in vain to struggle against the attacker, something glimmers in the water and he realizes the colours are not dull and burnished but bright and vibrant - and the shape - a tail? 

 

Before Loki can renew his struggles, arms wrap around him and pull him through the water. Fear courses through Loki anew until he realizes the arms are pulling him up - to the surface. He stops his weak struggles and the arms seem to haul him with more effort. Though skinny, the arms have a wiry strength. 

 

The water lightens near the surface, enough that Loki, even in his oxygen-deprived state, can catch a glimpse of his saviour: a flash of deep gold and dark red swirling in the water below him, propelling them up. He twists in the person’s arms and sees what must be a boy, with hair bright as gold. In the blurry water, Loki can’t make out his features but then the boy smiles brightly at him and for no reason he can think of, Loki is reminded of the sun. 

 

It’s over in an instant. Coughing and gasping, Loki breaches the surface, and the arms finally release him. He beats frantically at the water, trying desperately to stay buoyant even as the waves splash at his head. At last, strong arms grab his shoulders and haul him up and out of the water. As he is lifted away, Loki tries to see his rescuer but the sea is inscrutable. He rolls over and coughs seawater onto the deck of the fishing boat.

 

“Loki!” Frigga calls, alarmed. “My child, what happened?”

 

“I fell,” Loki says, sitting up and pushing damp hair from his face. “The water grabbed me and - I tried to swim but I kept falling down.”

 

“Oh, Loki,” Frigga embraces him, heedless of the freezing water soaking into her own shawl. 

 

But Loki isn’t finished. “I was saved by a fish!”

 

Frigga only sniffs and hugs him tighter. 

 

“It’s true,” Loki continues, “the big red fish came and pulled me up to the surface.”

 

“Did it? I must be very thankful to that fish for returning my son to me,” Frigga says, but Loki can tell she does not quite believe him.  

 

“Mama,” he says very seriously, “the fish was a boy.”

 

Frigga chuckles but her gaze grows thoughtful. “You’ve been spending too much time with the old captain,” she says. “His stories are getting to your head.”

 

“No,” Loki insists, “the fishboy saved me. He had arms and a tail and he lifted me up.”

 

Frigga lapses into silence, stroking Loki’s hair. “There is the sea in you,” she says softly. For no reason Loki can discern, she looks close to tears. “It is calling.”

 

Loki does not know what to say to that, only that he must ease the sorrowful look on his mother’s face. “I’m here, mama.”

 

“Yes,” Frigga smiles sweetly at him, tinged with something he will only later come to recognize as heartbreak. “You’re here. My Loki.”

 

Loki falls asleep that night rocked in his mother’s arms and does not hear her whisper into his hair, “For now.”

 

+++   
  


Seasons change and time passes. The tide comes and goes and the brine and salt in the air weave themselves into the threads of Loki's clothes, his hair, his skin. His hands become rough and calloused from his work helping the other men on the docks though his fingers remain quick and nimble, dancing around the threads of fishing nets with a grace half the women in the village envy.

 

A week before his 20th birthday, Loki is trawling the water with the rest of the village men. The day is overcast, the sea reflecting the nondescript grey of the clouds that fade and fade and fade until it’s impossible to tell where sky and water meet. Lulled by the steady rocking of the boat and the long-familiar sea sounds - creaking wood, the  _ thwap! _ of rope coils hitting the deck, the gentle splash of waves against the hull - Loki drifts into a trance. 

 

That’s when he sees it.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, there’s a flash of red beneath the waves. Pulled from his trance, Loki cranes his neck to peer over the low railing of the deck. He feels the rough grain of the wood beneath his hands. Below, the water is slate-grey, unfathomable.

 

“Starboard! Haul the nets!” The sailors’ cry jolts Loki back to the ship, where the men are rushing to grab net and tackle. He darts across the deck, sure-footed on the slippery wood.  

 

With a gasp, Loki recognizes the red shadow. Now, however, he sees the shape for what it truly is: a crimson tail. It’s large, at least half as long as a man - a fish such as that would feed the whole village. Still, Loki hesitates. Something is not right, he knows. Memory floats to the surface of his thoughts, unbidden: the serenity beneath the waves; sunlight dancing with shadow; a flash of brilliant red and the arms that had lifted him up - the blinding smile - and suddenly Loki knows the men must not catch this prize. A thrill of fear lances through him and he stumbles, colliding hard with Bergløt as the bulkier man readies his net. They hit the deck in a tangle of limbs and the small dinghy trembles on the waves. 

 

“Sorry,” Loki pants, clambering gracelessly to his feet and holding out a hand for the older man. “I- My foot slipped.”

 

When he dares to look over the edge, the red shadow is gone. Loki lets out a breath he didn't know he’d been holding. 

 

On Loki's next birthday the strangeness starts. A torn net that even he cannot fix is repaired and gleaming overnight. Seashells start appearing at his feet as he walks along the coast. They're not the rough-hewn clam shells that are common among the pebbles; these are delicate and pearlescent, so intricately curved and detailed they look as though they have been sculpted by the sea herself. Loki takes some back home and braids them into his hair that night. They shine in the firelight, nestled against the black of his hair like stars. The fishing boat he uses most,  _ Hårfagre _ , is always in working condition; her hull does not lose its shine nor do her sails ever tear even in the worst storms. When he fishes with the men, his crew will always return with the fullest net, and even on still days the wind blows in his favour. Rumours start in the village. Loki Fleetfoot, the villagers call him, who walks the tide pools at night and braids the wind into his hair. Loki Silvertongue who sings the fish into his nets and whose voice bubbles like a riptide. When he sings, the stars come out to listen.  Eyes as green as seaglass, they say, and colder than water after frost. 

 

For his part, Loki keeps to himself. The names and rumours are harmless enough most days not to give him pause. And yet - a small part of him cannot help but wonder. 

 

He has never heard his own heartbeat. 

 

Other people have heartbeats, he knows. Loki used to lay for hours on his mother's chest as a child, lulled to sleep by the steady thumping of her heart. Yet he has never heard his own. When he tries to listen for it all he can hear is the push and pull of waves steady at the shore.    
  
He asks Old Eirik, the grizzled sea captain, about this one day, hoping for an answer. "There's the sea in ye," the old man says, poking at his smouldering fire. "Y’ve been in and now it knows you and it won't forget. One day it will call you."

 

Loki’s curiosity is only compounded when, walking out along the rocks that edge the shore, a wave laps up just to the toes of his boots. When it recedes, a glint of colour catches his eye. Bending down to inspect it, Loki sees it is a seashell but unlike any he has ever seen before. Where other shells are white, this one is multicoloured, imbued with splendid hues of deep red and bright orange. It is small, barely a finger’s length at its widest point, but the vibrancy of its colours - like a sunset, flowing over its delicate ridges - takes Loki’s breath away. He turns the shell over in his palm and finds a strange marking on the inside, where the surface ought to be smooth. Stark against the cream shell is a word - Loki cannot tell what else it might be, though it is nothing in his language.  _ Þórr.  _ What does that mean?

 

Loki pockets the shell and heads to the old sea captain’s hut. The books in the village are few and the ones he has not read even fewer but if there is something there that will help untangle this mystery, he has to know. 

 

He arrives at Old Eirik’s doorstep breathless and windblown. The old man looks at him through narrowed eyes. “What have you done now?”

 

“Nothing,” Loki says, panting from his run up the path. “I just - found something.”

 

Old Eirik moves aside slightly, allowing Loki into his home. Loki follows him, ducking under the wooden doorframe. The familiar dim interior greets him, full of the smell of saltwater and smoke. A fire crackles quietly in the hearth, a heavy cast iron kettle hanging over it. 

 

“Drink?” 

 

“No, thank you,” Loki says.

 

The captain grunts. “Mm. So. What is it you’ve found to have you bounding up here like the wind?”

 

In answer, Loki reaches into his pocket and produces the shell. The captain holds out his hand and Loki drops it gently into his weathered palm. An inscrutable expression flashes across the man’s lined face as he sees the symbols etched into the back of the shell. 

 

“ _ Þórr _ ,” he says. 

 

“What?” Loki asks.

 

“ _ Þórr _ ,” he says again. The word rolls off his tongue and sounds like thunder. “It is a name. Thor.” 

 

Loki scrunches his face up in confusion. “There is no one in the village named Thor.” 

 

“Indeed,” the captain hands Loki’s shell back. 

 

“Is that it?” Loki demands. “Do you know this Thor? What use has he for this bauble?”

 

Old Eirik’s eyes darken like stormclouds. “You know it is more than that.”

 

The hairs on Loki’s arms stand on end and for no reason he can discern, the air in the room feels static, charged. He swallows and his ears pop. Still, “I have never heard of any Thor.” 

 

Old Eirik laughs, humourless. “Aye and with that attitude, you’re not likely to either.”

 

Barbed words rise to Loki’s tongue but something in Old Eirik’s dark eyes holds him back. With effort, he swallows and casts his gaze to the floor. “I suppose he would want this back.”

 

Old Eirik  _ harumphs _ and reaches for his pipe. Loki takes that as his cue to leave, shell secure in his pocket. As he reaches the door, Old Eirik speaks.

 

“The sea,” he says, “is calling.”   
  


As Loki turns away, he hears, “How will you answer?”

 

The night after finding the shell - Thor’s shell, whoever he may be - Loki dreams. The sea whispers in his ear,  _ Come home _ .

 

“I don’t know how,” he says. 

 

The water reaches for him, cradling him. He hears his name in the sibilant hiss of the waves as the dream fades away.  _ Loki, Loki _ …   
  
Loki ponders the dream as he makes his way down to the docks the next morning - and that is when he hears it.

 

Beneath the humdrum sounds of the docks - wood creaking, men shouting, the lapping of the waves at the shore and the calls of the seabirds circling high overhead - is the sweetest sound he's ever heard. He pauses mid-stride to listen for it again and cannot help but turn toward it. The sound is unlike anything he’s ever heard; soft yet resonant, stirring something deep within his chest. It's so beautiful it makes tears spring to Loki's eyes, unbidden. His heart yearns for the sound, and his whole body trembles with feeling. He barely notices that he’s moving toward it until his boot squelches in a puddle left by the receding tide.   
  
Loki picks his way along the shore on shaky legs, tracking the sound. He has to pause every so often to navigate particularly treacherous rocks, their rugged forms hunched and coated in slippery lichen. He loses track of the singing when he reaches the entrance to a small cove and for a heart-stopping moment thinks it's disappeared. But it starts up again and Loki splashes into the shallow water that enters the cove, following that low, aching melody.    
  
The sight is not what he expects - except it is and in his heart of hearts, Loki cannot say he's surprised. He thinks, he has known this all along.    
  
There, in the middle of the cove, not twenty paces from where Loki stands, is the  _ nøkke _ \- for Loki assumes that it what it must be. Certainly he can think of no other creature that resembles this one. From the waist up, its figure is that of a man, broad-shouldered and muscled (impressively so, Loki cannot help but think). His shoulder-length hair and close trimmed beard are molten gold. The creature is seated on a low outcrop of rock, half submerged in the water, but the glimpse of its waist that’s visible is covered in scales. Loki’s breath catches in his chest as he takes a further step into the cove, water lapping up over the small rocky ledge to lick at his ankles.    
  
His voice sounds foreign to his ears when he speaks. "Are you - Are you Thor?"

 

The melody cuts off as the  _ nøkke _ turns. It’s eyes are shaped like a human’s but brighter than any blue Loki has ever seen. “Thor,” it says, as if tasting the word. “Yes, that is my name to your people.”

 

Its voice is a deep baritone. Loki feels the words reverberate through his own chest. He licks dry lips. “What are you doing here?”

 

The  _ nøkke _ inclines its head towards Loki. “To give thanks.”

 

“Thanks…” Loki trails off. He has been pulling on threads the whole time and only now is the tapestry becoming clear to him. “It was you that day with the fishermen.”

 

The  _ nøkke  _ nods. “You saved me.”

 

“You were careless,” Loki says, shifting on his feet. “You were swimming too close to shore.”

 

The  _ nøkke _ \- Thor - flashes him a smile, bright as sunlight gleaming off the waves. 

 

“What are you smiling at?”

 

The smile widens and Loki’s heart pounds with it. “You have known me for such a brief time, yet you worry about me. It’s sweet.”

 

Loki does scowl at that. He wants to retort but - “It was you. The gifts - the shells, the nets being repaired - more of your thanks.”

 

It’s Thor’s turn to duck his head. “Yes,” he says, and if Loki didn’t know better, he would call the tone sheepish. “I was - am - grateful. Those were tokens of my gratitude.” He looks up at Loki with an expression bordering on hope. “Did you like them?”

 

“No,” Loki drawls, twining a lock of hair around his finger so Thor can see the glint of the shells there. “I refused them all.”

 

Thor laughs at that, a curious and deep sound like water rushing over rocks. His tail slaps the water in his mirth. Loki sees his scales are not all red but a mix of colours: crimson, deep orange, burnt copper and burnished gold. The pattern is mesmerizing and seems to shift the harder Loki tries to look.

 

Thor notices his staring and Loki pulls back, feeling his cheeks flush. But Thor seems far from accusatory, choosing to simply watch Loki on his hesitant approach. 

 

An arm’s length away, Loki pauses. Close enough to reach out and touch, he says, “May I?”

 

Thor nods and Loki reaches out a hand. His tail is nothing like the flimsy fish scales Loki is used to. These are hard and tough beneath his palm and cold from the seawater. The dance of colours is mesmerizing; the contrast of the rich crimson and near-translucent gold is enough to take Loki’s breath away. But something prods at Loki’s mind as his hand skirts over Thor’s scales. He cannot name it yet, but it dances there just out of reach as he watches Thor’s tail move in the water. Somehow, the sight is familiar though it has no right to be...

 

Memory flashes through Loki like a shock: strong arms and a blinding smile. He yanks his hand back, startled, and stares at Thor. “You were him. You were the fish-boy who saved me as a child.” 

 

“Yes,” Thor admits. “I did not know then that your kind - humans - could not breathe below the water’s surface. When I saw you struggling, I thought perhaps you were a merchild who could not swim, until I realized your tail was torn. You had - legs.” 

 

Loki looks down at his legs, trying to imagine how strange they would look to someone with a tail. Thor continues before he can speak. “After that, I was curious about you humans. I began to swim closer to the shore to learn more about your people. And after you saved me from the nets - I wished to see you again.”  

 

Loki cannot tell if the heat he feels in his cheeks is due to the sun or Thor’s words. “In that case,” he says, “it is good to meet you, Thor. I am Loki.” 

 

“Loki,” Thor says, rolling the word on his tongue as if tasting it. “Funny that I have glimpsed you on the surface for so long and only now do i know your name.” 

 

Silence hangs between them for a moment, broken only by the crash of waves on the shore. 

 

Loki is the first to speak. “I have… this.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the red seashell. 

 

Thor’s eyes brighten in recognition. “My name-shell. I am glad it made its way to you.” Though his tone is glad, he makes no move to reclaim it.

 

Loki arches an eyebrow. “Do you not want it? Or is this another token of gratitude?”

 

On another, the expression on Thor’s face might be called abashed. “It is less a token of gratitude,” he says slowly, “and more of affection.”

 

_ Affection.  _ The word hits Loki in the space between heartbeats, ringing through him. HIs breath stutters. “Affection,” he repeats. “For me.”

 

It is not phrased as a question but Thor answers. “Yes. If you would have it.”

 

Loki swallows thickly. “And what if I have nothing in return?”

 

Thor meets his eyes and Loki is all but dragged under in the weight of his gaze. “Then I would have you keep it still, as a token of the sea.”

 

Loki is the first to look away, tearing himself from Thor’s eyes. Blood rushes in his ears like the roaring of a waterfall. His mouth is dry and he has to swallow before speaking. He forces his voice to steady. “Luckily for you, your affection-” he barely hesitates on the word - “is returned.”

 

As the words leave his lips, Loki knows them to be true. A sense of calm rises in him like the swell of the tide. Thor must see it in his eyes for he smiles to put the sun to shame.

 

“That is cause for great joy.”

 

“Indeed,” Loki demurs though he knows the creeping smile on his face gives him away. He has known Thor for only this short while and yet he feels at peace in his presence, like a longing in his heart - one he did not know existed - is at last assuaged. 

 

Perhaps, he thinks, a part of him has wanted this all along. “I would be yours,” he says at last, “if you would have me.”

 

Thor beams. “It would be my honour.”

 

He extends a hand, beckoning Loki closer but as he does so his expression turns grave. “This choice cannot be unmade,” he says. “What you will do cannot be undone.” 

 

“I know,” says Loki.

 

“Think carefully, then. Think on what - whom you will leave behind.”

 

Loki falters. An image of Frigga forms in his head, unbidden. The warmth in her eyes as she sang to him; the softness of her touch and the comfort of being by her side. Yet he remembers something else: the sadness in her eyes when she looks at him; the fateful night all those years ago when he’d nearly drowned. When Thor had saved him.  _ The sea is in you _ , she had said. 

 

And Loki knows what he must do. 

 

He steps forward, excitement surging in his bones, wild rapids of feeling coursing through him. One hand is on Thor’s shoulder before he even realizes what he’s doing; the other is caught in Thor’s hair, smoothing over his brow, tracing the shape of his jaw under his golden beard. Thor’s hands are on him too, pulling him closer, impossibly strong yet incredibly gentle, surrounding Loki in his embrace. And then they are kissing. The press of Thor’s lips against his own is gentle at first, aching with tenderness; then Loki shifts to press himself against Thor’s chest and opens his mouth to Thor’s tongue, the sea-salt taste of him. Loki loses himself in the wild abandon of Thor’s mouth as they surge together. He falls into the kiss, a storm of sensation - no, he realizes. They  _ are _ falling. Thor has launched them from the rocky ledge and they are underwater, borne from the shallows of the cove and tossed and eddied by the whim of the tide. A wash of sensation overtakes him, thundering through his body from the ends of his hair to the tips of his toes and Loki shudders in its grip. Something  _ pulses _ within him and he yields to Thor’s kiss again and again.

 

At last, they part. Opening his eyes, Loki’s world is a whirlpool of blues and greens. Sunlight filters down through the water above, catching on Thor’s hair as if returning to itself. 

 

“You’re beautiful,” Thor says, reverently. 

 

Loki twirls away through the water, delighting in the naked admiration on Thor’s face as he does so. He flexes his tail, watching the watery light shine on his cerulean scales. “Am I?” he asks. “Was I not before?”

 

“You were,” Thor says earnestly. “But this form - it suits you well.”

 

Loki smiles at that and reaches for Thor’s hand. “The sea could not have given a greater gift.” 

 

“No,” Thor says, pulling Loki in for another kiss. “It could not have.”

 

FIN

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> (Heh, fin, get it?)


End file.
